Morning's Journey (59 page)

Yet at what cost?

Bedwyr ached with his friend. Gyan had captured his heart, though in a different way. True, her bright beauty dazzled him. What lover of women could remain immune to it? And he admired her courage and respected her intelligence. Most of all, he loved her for the positive influence she’d exerted upon Arthur before tragedy befell their son. He’d have sacrificed his right hand to save the child, but by the time he found out, only grieving with Arthur remained.

He winced at the memory of the worst ale-head he’d ever suffered.

Good thing Arthur’s work at South Cove was proceeding quickly.

Staring across his watery domain at the cliffs, he tried to imagine fighting on a surface that didn’t constantly throw everyone off balance. Land troops had no need for the extra measures of strength and agility that made a good shipboard warrior. Nor did they need ironclad stomachs, he thought with an irreverent grin, no matter how loudly they complained about camp rations.

Bedwyr’s men, all specially selected and trained for naval warfare, would acquit themselves with honor anywhere.

“My lord, the Saxons are shoving off,” called the lookout.

“How many ships?”

“Twelve, sir. The remaining soldiers are trying to buy time.” The crewman’s teeth flashed a grin. “They don’t have long.”

Bedwyr moistened his salt-dried lips. “Raise the signal.”

The lookout drew a length of cloth from under his tunic and tied it to the rigging beneath the Scarlet Dragon. As the saffron semaphore unfurled in the stiff breeze, he started down from his perch.

The warships set oars to water and lunged forward to cut off the Saxons’ escape.

The enemy loosed swarms of arrows at the Brytoni fleet, but panic forced the archers to let fly too soon. Most of the arrows fell harmlessly into the sea. With a practiced eye for the distance, Bedwyr brought the fleet closer and answered with fire. Saxon volleys dwindled as more men devoted their energies to beating out the flames. The ships began wallowing like cows trapped in a bog.

A few set course toward the Brytoni line and the freedom lying beyond. One bore down upon Bedwyr’s flagship at ramming speed.

Like a dancer, the Scotti-built vessel pivoted and glided out of the way. Bedwyr ordered out the grappling hooks. A tremor rocked the decks as the vessels scraped together. A few unwary crewmen from both ships fell overboard, their screams drowned by a horrific screeching and cracking of hulls.

The Saxons fought with desperate fervor to board the flagship. Bedwyr and his men battered them back to carry the fight aboard the enemy ship.

Hand-to-hand combat upon a wildly pitching deck sluiced with seawater and urine and blood, compounded by the danger of burning rigging, presented quite a challenge. Bedwyr harbored no doubt that Arthur had the easier task of this operation.

Fighting near the mast, he heard a shouted warning. He dived and rolled as the crosspiece crashed onto the deck. Its glowing end clouted his shoulder, and agony exploded in his brain.

His opponent lay pinned, screaming, beneath the burning beam, clothing alight. The stench of roasting flesh flooded his nostrils. Lifting his sword and gritting his teeth, Bedwyr performed the only merciful act.

Before the fire began to bite into the deck, he ordered the return to their ship, for the fighting on this one had ceased.

CALEBERYLLUS WAS a cruel taskmaster.

Arthur stared at the weapon dripping Saxon blood. What else could imprison him on this corpse-littered beach while he ached to discover the fate of his beloved Gyan?

Ridiculous. It wasn’t his sword’s fault.

These Saxons couldn’t be blamed, either. They’d only gotten in the way, paying for their blunder in crimson currency.

What constrained the Pendragon to see the event to its inevitable conclusion was a precept embedded in him from the moment his fingers had curled around the hilt of his first wooden practice sword. Duty governed him so naturally that he seldom wasted a second thought upon his decisions.

Today, he felt the chafing weight as surely as if an iron band wrapped his throat. He swallowed thickly.

No predicting how she might react to him. If she was alive. Had time eased her grief or intensified it? Did she love him anymore? Or had she found—
God, please, no
—someone else to comfort her?

Would he have the chance to tell her any of this?

Clenching his jaw, he exiled his doubts about the future to concentrate on the present. Instead, perversely, his mind reviewed the raw memory of the afternoon’s work. He grimaced. The exhausted enemy force had stood no chance against rested men lusting to avenge their companions’ deaths.

“Wholesale slaughter” came closest to describing the grisly mess his men now labored to clean up. Untapped energy escaped in the form of boisterous joking as some soldiers stripped the dead of arms and armor and others stacked bodies and pieces of bodies for disposal.

Though battlefield humor might seem callous and out of place, with the corpses still limp and the wounded screaming for help, well did Arthur know its purpose. No soldier could look death in the eye without blinking. Those who failed to relieve the nervous tension went mad. Most chose to laugh about their daring exploits and narrow escapes, casting aspersions on the parentage and sexual preferences of the vanquished foe.

Today, their laughter stung him like brine on a gaping wound.

Upon Cai’s suggestion after the Dun Eidyn debacle, he’d learned to find his release in a woman’s arms. Besides the physical pleasure, it reassured him that life marched on, no matter how men tried to butcher each other. Those women hadn’t meant anything to him.

Gyan had to be alive! If not, he’d never forgive himself…and he’d save some choice words for God. And if she lived, and still loved him, he never would let her leave his side again.

Squealing gulls drew his attention, squabbling over a fish. The gulls’ raucous fighting reminded him of himself and his wife, with one marked difference. The birds shrieked and dived and pecked at one another with reckless abandon, free to follow their own choices. But no gull tried to hold any of the others back.

Pondering this revelation, he wiped Caleberyllus with a handful of grass pulled from the sandy bank. As the blade disappeared into its scabbard, he noticed the long cut on his right forearm. He couldn’t recall any Saxon getting that close, though that was hardly unusual. The cut didn’t hurt much, and the blood had already dried.

Recognition jolted him. The wound bore an uncanny resemblance to the one he’d accidentally inflicted upon Gyan’s arm last year.

His left hand briefly touched the linen wrap covering the fealty-mark on his neck. That scar, symbolic of an oath far more profound than a bond between warriors, would forever bind his heart to hers regardless of how she acted toward him. His regret intensified.

Reluctantly, he returned to the task at hand.

Bedwyr appeared to be dealing with the Saxon warships with his usual efficiency. Golden flashes and black plumes erupted from the condemned vessels. Widening red circles marred the bay’s greenish hue.

In combat, the Saxon warships were outclassed by their swifter Brytoni and Scotti counterparts, yet as troop transports they knew no equal. Arthur regretted that only half would be salvageable.

This seemed destined to be a day of regrets.

Mercifully, the fitful breeze coaxed the smoke out to sea, taking with it the stink of blazing destruction, though death smells clung stubbornly to the beach.

He watched Saxons jump ship and paddle for shore, only to be dragged under by the pounding surf. Many surfaced, choking and flailing. Some didn’t. He sent Marcus with a unit to round up the survivors.

While the Brytoni fleet bobbed serenely offshore, the flagship split away and rode the waves onto the beach. Arthur strode forward as men disembarked to drag the vessel from reach of the covetous waters. Bedwyr stood at the prow, looking as if he’d stumbled through the caverns of hell.

“What in God’s name happened to you?” Arthur asked.

Wincing, Bedwyr touched the blackened leather on his shoulder. “I argued with a burning crossbeam.” He smiled wanly. “Care to wager which of us won?”

Yet another damned regret: not having one iota of humor to banter with his best friend. “You should get that treated soon.”

“I plan to. We’re going to port,” Bedwyr said. “Have you any wounded?”

“No. We suffered only minor casualties.” As Arthur regarded his arm, sorrow provoked his sigh. “Nothing that can’t wait.” Duty’s burden grew heavier. Small wonder he wasn’t sinking into the sand. “Go. I’ll meet you there later.”

“Dolphin dung, Arthur! You’re coming with me.” Bedwyr raised his uninjured arm, palm open. Arthur checked his retort. “Marcus can finish here for you.”

“You’re right.” Thank God for friends who possessed more sense than he did. “I’ll tell him.”

EMPTY BUCKET in hand, Niniane threaded between the drab tents toward the central clearing where the rock-lined firepits had been dug. She didn’t need to glance inside the tents. The moans and screams and curses, and the stench of blood and offal and vomit, reaffirmed what she already knew.

Truly staggering, the many ways warriors could maim each other.

Being outside made it easier to steel herself against the suffering. The tent walls veiled the sights and muffled the sounds, and zephyrs purged the smells from the field-hospital compound erected on the Dhoo-Glass practice grounds.

Some part of her had rejoiced when she’d applied the last of the salve. Refusing her assistant’s offer to fetch more, she’d latched onto this excuse to escape the gashes and burns and dislocated joints and broken bones and ruined eyes and missing limbs, if only briefly.

Niniane proffered the bucket to the woman minding the nearest cauldron. Her linen apron smeared with hog tallow and ragged black braids framing her sweat-streaked face, the woman looked as exhausted as Niniane felt. Grunting, she gave the thick, infection-fighting elder-leaf ointment a few stirs with her paddle before filling the bucket. Niniane murmured her thanks and managed a smile. Drawing the back of a callused hand across her forehead, the woman nodded.

After stopping by the supply tent to collect an armload of bandage rolls, Niniane returned to her patients.

The first young man to receive her attention had taken a spear above the heart, though not deep. Someone had removed the spearhead. She cleaned out the dirt and blood, applied a generous dollop of warm ointment, and covered it with a bandage. With a clean cloth dipped in cool water, she gently wiped sweat from the soldier’s forehead. He stirred but, luckily, didn’t wake.

As she collected her implements to move to the next cot, the ground began to waver and spin. She felt a pair of hands grasp her shoulders. Sister Willa, who’d accompanied her to assist with the wounded, said something Niniane couldn’t make out. Pressing fingers to temple, she braced herself for a visitation of the Sight.

No visions came. Simply fatigue, she presumed, unsure whether to be relieved or not. Evening was nipping at afternoon’s heels, yet so many soldiers remained in need of help.

The dizziness passed. Niniane turned with a sigh—and saw Arthur.

“Is she here?”

She noticed the cut on his forearm. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara is at the fort.” It was the first question she’d asked upon arrival, and Cynda had left the field hospital shortly thereafter. “Cynda should be with her. But first, let me dress your”—she blinked and found herself talking to the air—“arm.”

Bedwyr chuckled softly. This surprised her, for a melon-size burn branded his right shoulder. She reached for her knife and the bucket of ointment. Willa handed her a bandage roll.

“That’s his way, Prioress.” He groaned as she sliced away charred leather to expose his damaged flesh. She smoothed on the salve and watched his face’s tension ease. He gazed at her through steady, moss-green eyes. “Especially with those he loves.”

Niniane wrapped his shoulder. “I know, Bedwyr.” She couldn’t bear to tell him that Arthur’s concern for others, which outweighed all thought of his own safety, would one day be his death. “I know.”